Cos Maybe We're the Lucky Ones
by NineStoicCrayolas
Summary: They found her on the grounds, her hair splayed out on the grass, blood seeping through her fingers, staining the ground a pretty red. She was beautiful there, sprawled across the dirt, her face pale—freckles on the bridge of her nose—her eyes half-closed, hiding whiskey pools—her breath rising her chest, bleeding through the fabric of her blue sweater. (This one was his.)


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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They found her on the grounds, her hair splayed out on the grass, blood seeping through her fingers, staining the ground a pretty red. She was beautiful there, sprawled across the dirt, her face pale—freckles on the bridge of her nose—her eyes half-closed, hiding whiskey pools—her breath rising her chest, bleeding through the fabric of her blue sweater.

Her fingers twitched.

Blood splattered further across the grass.

There was a minute of silence, eyes set on the beautiful girl on the ground with gaping mouths and bulging eyes before—

Someone gasped, a Slytherin, and a Hufflepuff boy rushed forward, a Ravenclaw girl right behind him, already shouting _levicorpus_ and bringing her to Madam Pomfrey's. The teachers backed the rest of the students up, their mouths grave in the pale light of the gray morning—Albus Dumbledore looked ashen, Horace Slughorn took several half-steps backwards, his eyes wild—and they were ushered away with quiet force, unable to answer the questions that were leaping inside their minds.

The last they saw of her was a wisp of curly brown hair, pale skin and a trail of bright-red blood.

For the rest of the day, the castle hummed with gossip. Slytherins conferred with Gryffindors about the mysterious girl that appeared on the ground with blood on her clothes and pale, pale skin; Hufflepuffs worried their lips, eyes smarting as they talked to the Ravenclaws about the possibilities of what could have happened— _another Grindelwald attack? Maybe he had moved to England now?_ —teachers were unable to soothe the worries of the students, already set with flitting eyes and stony mouths, their words hardly more than a whisper.

It was still big news five hours later when Headmaster Dippet got up from his seat, his mouth set in a thin, drab line, his eyes losing that twinkling light. He cleared his throat, a twitch forming on his brow, his collar beginning to dampen with sweat.

He tells them that the girl is fine. She's just had a nasty shock is all—the Slytherins sigh, the Ravenclaws scoff, the Hufflepuffs close their eyes and decide to believe and the Gryffindors squint at the absent Dumbledore, knowing that the girl on the grass is a far bigger mystery than they have time to unravel—Dippet finishes with a tremulous smile and the feast begins, the gossip losing traction as the students spy the nice treacle pie.

One boy, dark hair, pristine coat, piercing green eyes glances towards the empty seat next to Dippet and allows a sliver of suspicion take over his mind.

He doesn't frown, only smiles, when an effeminate blonde boy with long lashes leans over and tells him about the muffled screams they heard walking down the infirmary.

The girl is not fine.

There is still talk— _Did you see the way—she was so still, she barely breathed. I heard Richard nearly fainted when he saw her—Emily was terrified she'd stop breathing on the way to the infirmary_ —about the girl in the grass. People speculate; Grindelwald, they think. Atrocious man that he is— _no one is worse than he is, you know_ —others think it is the Muggle War with the loud bangs and the bombs and the Blitz.

A green-eyed boy just sits at the great hall, flipping through a library book, an intrigued expression on his patrician features as he let the gossip—half-truths, half-lies—wash over him in mindless drivel.

He still does not think the girl is fine.

The blonde boy shudders at the way the teacher's eyes follow him—terrified, uneasy, _raw_ —of the way he hangs around the infirmary halls, his ears perked, his head tilted to listen.

Still, of course, three weeks down the line people lose interest, rolling their eyes when they hear of the Girl on The Grass, a scoff rising in their throats as they speak— _Well I heard that it was just a bad apparition, nasty splinch if you know what I mean_ —and the teachers give them understanding smiles and horrified eyes, not daring to _breathe_ any louder in case it comes to attention.

There are still screams coming from the infirmary.

The blonde boy can hear them in his sleep now. Silencing spells are set up, his dorm mates not daring to address him about the way he thrashes in his sleep or how he whines, low and throaty and in _pain_ before waking with a gasp, awful tears slipping down porcelain cheeks.

A couple more weeks—dull, utterly boring—go by until the sound of fists, spitting curses and blistering swear words escape the Great Hall.

The brawl is brutal— _I heard it was 'cos Freeman mentioned Jordan's muggle mother_ —and blood and magic sparks the air, a dangerous sort of spell filling the room with violence—a Gryffindor kid punches a Hufflepuff—and the lion is sent, hobbling to the infirmary, a scowl sown onto his face. The rest watch, horrified, as the Hufflepuff boy breaks down crying— _Jordan's mother died in the Blitz,_ they whisper not daring to upset the boy—and several Ravenclaw girls touch his shoulders, their pretty faces filled with sorrow and comfort.

By nighttime there are whispers of a possessed girl with blank eyes and pale, pale skin—freckles on her nose—who stares and stares and stares. _She's—She's in the infirmary_ , Freeman whispers, his voice hoarse, his eyes wild in fear as he tells his tale, _and she's—she's terrifying._ Questions— _…D'you mean the girl in the grass_ , the ask quietly, fearfully, _yeah. I think so—she's the one, yeah. The pale one_ —arise in the student's minds.

The dark-haired boy raises an interested eyebrow, a terrifying expression of intrigue crossing his sculpted face.

While the students press and press and press until their tongues are bleeding and the halls near the infirmary are desolate, the teachers continue to smile with glassy, terrified eyes and deep loyalty—or was it fear?—threaded into their faces. They wave away questions with scowls and well-placed frowns, asking— _Is there really nothing better for you to do than to question what is not on your syllabus? I don't think those N.E.W.T.S are write themselves._ —Do not reveal. The subtle press of fear, the discomfort threading around people's throats, thrumming in the heavy air, smells of rage and anger and _loss._

 _It is a dark time for Hogwarts._ Albus Dumbledore tells them. _But do not fear—those who wish for the light need only to look._

Snow falls the first day the pale girl, the Girl in the Grass, the blank eyed girl steps out of the infirmary.

Her hands aren't trembling.

Her fingers don't twitch.

"Hello." She tells them quietly.

Her eyes are still blank.

"My name is Hermione Granger."

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I'm thinking this fic is going to be three chapters or so. Just a short Tomione thing I'm working on. May be romance? Probs not. I love war-torn Hermione.


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